


13 Ways

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drug Abuse, M/M, Poverty, unemployment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are 13 possibilities with which this could have ended, whatever exists between Sherlock and John. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

There are 13 possibilities with which this could have ended, whatever exists between Sherlock and John. 

1\. Sherlock would delicately lean in to kiss John with caution. John would say, “Not today, thanks.” and walk away from Sherlock.

2\. John would brashly kiss Sherlock good morning. Sherlock would say “Actually, John-” and then proceed to explain that he was married to his work, and an extramarital affair would not be worth John’s time or effort.

3\. Sherlock, deemed a threat to national security, would fall off a building, be shot by 7 snipers at various stations, then be suffocated by his own coat. Mycroft would sigh over his coffee. All a day’s work for the sibling of a sociopath. 

4.John would choke to death one morning, the arsenic in his shit corner cafe coffee taking effect. Molly Hooper would cry into her forensic goggles.

5\. Sherlock would lock himself in a padded room with Moriarty, and would not come out until they were both dead. John would find him in the bathtub after following the drops of heroin. 

6\. John would say “That’s it.” after finding an eyeball in the refrigerator and being kept up late by violin music. It would have been two months. 

7\. Sherlock would begin staring at the wall one day. And would not stop.

8\. John would begin staring at his gun one day, before he met Sherlock. He would not stop looking at the gun in his drawer, cushioned by a bland jumper. Molly Hooper would not know him, but would still be upset. 

9\. Molly Hooper would one day kiss Sherlock Holmes. He would find it satisfactory.

10\. Irene Adler would one day kiss Sherlock Holmes. He would find it unsatisfactory.

11\. John would fall asleep one day on the sofa. He would not get up.

12\. Sherlock would be frustrated by John’s irrationality for a split second before John jumped in front of a bullet for him. Moriarty would cry in an undisclosed location.

13\. Sherlock and John would grow old together, get married to other people, and perhaps even have children with those other people. When the children and the wives and the husbands have all either moved out because of age/ frustration/ health issues/ an ugly divorce, Sherlock and John would move back in together. They would kiss and share a bed, though according to the outside world, they were just flatmates. Sherlock would keep a steady stream of body parts in the fridge, hands shaky as he twisted this and poured that. John would play golf to keep himself fit. They would both visit the graves of the people who they parted peacefully with (Mike Stamford, Irene Adler, Mary Morstan) and visit Molly’s for tea. They would fall asleep in each other’s arms every night, the oldest couple in the world. John would fall asleep first, then Sherlock would fall asleep staring at John. They would not wake up for a very long time. 

This is how the 13th possibility occurred.


	2. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "His army uniform was folded and pressed, the flat cleaned within an inch of its almost- nonexistent life, and the Browning cleaned with a rag. He had 6 pounds in his pocket and absolutely nothing to do."

John sat down at the table, fingers twitching out the beat of the bad pop music. His head twitched left, then right, unconsciously checking for enemies. His jumper was frayed. His coffee was cold.  
Naturally, John Watson was in a bad mood.  
His army uniform was folded and pressed, the flat cleaned within an inch of its almost- nonexistent life, and the Browning cleaned with a rag. He had 6 pounds in his pocket and absolutely nothing to do.  
John was idly fiddling with the edge of a sperm bank pamphlet, wondering if it was time. John had always daydreamed about children; while other boys had been thinking about buxom blondes and the hot substitute math teacher, John had been...different. He thought about taking care of someone, obtaining enough money to take care of them and his own needs. He thought about impregnating someone (not the actual act) and marrying them, by will of their parents. He thought about someone’s hands and how that someone would walk away from him one day, metaphorically or literally.  
John wondered if the children he would no doubt produce would have his nose or his hair.  
Then he remembered that in a sperm bank, no one knows anyone else. Everything is done with a large black divider between customer and producer.  
This was not the way John wanted to do this.  
But, at this rate, it was the only way he was going to have biological offspring. He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and reached into his pocket for his phone.  
§  
Meanwhile, Sherlock was dissecting an eyeball found, alone, in a pile of ash where a suburban house had once been.  
§  
John had already flicked the safety off on the Browning. He was sitting at his desk, which was neatly polished. He held the gun steady against his temple, and fired.  
Nothing.  
John fired again and again, until he found that all six rounds were conspicuously empty.  
He rummaged in his drawer for extra bullets.  
Nothing.  
Finally, John, who was exasperated at the lack of bullets, went to the medicine cabinet.  
All of the bottles had been emptied.  
There were no broken locks or windows. It was like a ghost had passed through the wall.  
It was almost one in the morning. John shrugged, and went to sleep.  
§  
Sherlock didn’t usually intervene when he observed someone with suicidal plans, but this one--this one was different.  
At least that’s what he told himself.  
He was an army doctor in either Iraq or Afghanistan, newly re-introduced to the United Kingdom. He lived in a flat in Walworth. Despite being the flat being cheap, he had lived on beans for the last 4 months. At least he knew how to calculate how many calories he would need to operate effectively.  
But there was something off; he had bought himself a coffee today (corner café) and a pastry- raspberry? blueberry? Danish, definitely. Not his preference, but more than he could afford.  
He had maintained the same diet for months--what could break it?  
Either he had run into money, or it was a special occasion. He had just arrived from the sperm bank (paperwork, slight smudge of alcohol-based hand sanitizer on his jeans), so he had some money, but not enough to warrant a sudden celebration. It wasn’t his birthday (same work clothes, no signs of even speaking to anyone he knew in a familiar fashion). It wasn’t a bank holiday (Sherlock has memorized them; crime rates were up on those days).  
Sherlock’s skin went cold as he noticed the gun oil on the man’s hands.  
Newly arrived, army doctor--what else could that mean? He was too moral to join any illegal crime ring (alcoholic sister, mother with emotional issues, dead neighbor as a child). There was no pressing issues in the subway man’s mind except for his severe PTSD and lack of healthcare. The dark shadows under his eyes supported the PTSD theory.  
When he figured it out, Sherlock began to plan. This man didn’t deserve to die.  
He found the subway man’s apartment (pretending he was a co-worker getting medication for the subway man, win sympathy) and picked his way in, light leather gloves covering his tracks. He emptied all of the man’s pill bottles into his pockets, then found the gun in a drawer, wrapped around an old jumper (how fitting). He found the single box of extra bullets (no need for more, Sherlock silently applauded the man’s sensibility). He removed all of the blades from the razors in the bathroom (extras, the man used an electric). Sherlock mentally did risk assessment: how else could someone kill themselves in this house?  
Long cords removed from the curtain. Didn’t possess a landline. Gas main controlled by landlord; besides, that was out of date. Presumably, the man knew he could easily overdose on Paracetamol, being a doctor. Sherlock emptied that bottle into his pocket, just to be safe.  
By the time Sherlock had safety-proofed the house, it had been three hours. The man had not come back yet. As the addict left the house, his hands were twitching for the need of an answer.  
He saw cases like the subway man's every day, and simply called 999 at the estimated time of suicide attempt.  
He chose not to question himself, and went to the empty house in Soho. He did not wake up from his slumber until three days later. His arm had become a racetrack of syringe lines. He still did not have an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pst, still looking for a beta, guys. If you see one around, let me know. *shifty eyes*

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully the beginning of my first long!fic. Un-beta'd (still looking for one), so all mistakes are mine.


End file.
